Canticle of Trials
by fangrl-esque
Summary: Marianne Marchet arrives at Haven as a lay-sister to attend the Conclave, but when the sky is torn open and the world dissolves into chaos, she joins the Inquisition to follow a young elf they call "Herald." But the path is not an easy one, and Marianne must find a way to overcome her own dark past and prejudices, or risk being consumed by them.
1. Awakening

_Hello, everyone! In case you have been following this story (which, by the way, I love and appreciate), you should know that I don't usually like to edit my works. Very often, I post them hot off the press with only a little tweaking here and there. However, I've invested so much time and heart into this particular project that I decided to REALLY edit it with the help of an incredible Beta. As such, the story has undergone **major** reconstruction. A lot of the main plot points will remain (in some form or another), but for those of you who have been reading since the beginning, it will seem like a completely different story. But I really think that this version is much better and Marianne deserves to have her story told as well as I can manage. So with that disclaimer out of the way, I hope you all enjoy these new and improved chapters, and please feel free to leave me a review or a message! Thank you! :D_

There was nothing truly remarkable about Haven.

After its dragon-worshipping heathens had been killed or driven off, the village tended to go unnoticed. Marianne could understand why, considering the only thing that made it worth visiting was the Temple of Sacred Ashes, which sat somewhere far above them in the mountain peaks, crumbling into ruin. Leaning against the Chantry's rough outer wall, she observed the small village until her nose went numb from the cold and her eyes glazed over from ennui. Snow-covered and rustic, Haven descended toward a small lake in tiered levels. Clerics, Mothers, scholars, and soldiers milled about among its slushing streets and sturdy, wooden houses. Most of the Chantry Sisters from Montsimmard had balked at the idea of travelling across the mountains into Ferelden, even at the Most Holy's direct request. Eventually it was decided that only the lay sisters would attend the Conclave under the supervision of the Revered Mother; a final pilgrimage before they took their vows.

But why Divine Justinia insisted on brokering peace between Templars and apostates at the top of a mountain, Marianne could not fathom. Perhaps she was afraid of the potential violence, should the talks turn sour. Better to have blood running down the walls of a forgotten ruin, than in the shining streets of Val Royeaux.

Marianne pushed herself lazily off the wall and rubbed her hands together to ward off the cold. She had volunteered to watch for the Revered Mother's return from the Temple, but after an hour there was still no sign of her. Days upon days of waiting for a verdict left the village in a constant state of idleness. But as long as the apostate mages stayed a fair distance away, Marianne experienced little discomfort.

She and the other low-ranking lay sisters were deemed "unnecessary" attendees for the Conclave, and had been given orders to stay behind in the village to pray. But one can only pray for so long before the stone roughs the knees and the sound of the Chant immediately puts you to sleep.

Still, she realized with a sigh, it was time to end her little diversion before she contracted frostbite; even if it meant sitting through more of Ava and Bree's constant bickering. She turned away from the village's quaint bustle to enter the sanctuary's quiet main hall. Ava and Bree were sitting near one of the lit braziers, just as Marianne had left them. Wordlessly, she sat down on the bench across from Ava and let the chill melt from her bones.

"What do you think they'll decide?" asked Ava suddenly, her bright green eyes wide with worry as she clutched a leather-bound tome to her chest.

"You've asked that question every hour for the past three days, Ava," groaned Bree. Her freckled face was pulled into an annoyed scowl as she tried to stoke the fire with little success.

Marianne considered offering to help, but Bree would probably just wave her away again. She was content to sit on the bench and watch the red sparks hopping along the ashes and blackened wood.

"But nothing like this has ever happened before," Ava said. "I've been reading up on everything in the Haven library. And I use the term 'library' _very_ loosely."

"I hope the Most Holy decides something soon. I'm tired of Ferelden. Everything smells like a wet dog," Bree complained. Frustrated, Bree threw away the stick she had been using to stoke the fire and wiped her hands on her dress, leaving dirty grey streaks across the red and white fabric.

Ava flipped through a few pages of her book and squinted at the small print. "Bree, please, you need to move or I can't see what I'm reading!" she said. Bree huffed and sat down on the bench between Ava and Marianne, then crossed her arms.

"I'm cold," said Bree suddenly. Ava rolled her eyes and snapped her book shut.

"The Revered Mother should be back soon from the Conclave. Complain to her!" said Ava. "Right, Marianne?"

"We won't make our lives any easier by bickering," said Marianne, still staring intently into the dying flames.

"Well, the Revered Mother won't like it if the fire dies and we all freeze to death in this forsaken place," grumbled Bree.

"Then stop complaining and go get some more firewood. Honestly, Bree, it's like the Ferelden air has turned you into an infant," said Ava, who had reopened her book and started to read again.

"Did you finish checking the traps, Ava?" asked Marianne. The lay-sister jolted up out of her seat and her book fell out of her hands and thudded to the floor.

"Oh no! I completely forgot, I've been so busy reading-"

Bree snorted through her nose. "Looks like I'm not the only one who forgot to do their chores."

Ava glared at Bree and her pale complexion flushed pink. "Oh, who are you to tell me anything? You have an easy job! I hate going downstairs. It's so dark and scary," Ava whined.

"I'll go with you, Ava," offered Marianne. Ava sighed with relief and stooped to pick up her book from the floor.

"Let's make it quick, Marianne. The less time we spend down there, the better," said Ava, setting her book neatly on the bench.

Bree huffed as they left, but said nothing else while Marianne and Ava walked across the hall, through a corridor, and down a set of stairs. The underground tunnel stretched the length of the chantry, and both sisters followed the torch-lit path until they reached a shallow alcove where barrels and crates of supplies were stacked against the wall.

"I think there should be a trap somewhere behind there," said Ava timidly as she pointed to one of the boxes. Marianne waited while Ava finally mustered up enough courage to creep towards the box. She leaned over, balancing precariously on one foot as she searched for the trap. A moment later, she sighed and alighted back down onto both feet. "It's empty, thank the Maker. Let's check the next one."

Marianne followed silently as Ava cautiously checked each of the next three traps, but all of them proved mouse-less.

"I think this is the last one. Please, Maker, let it be so…" said Ava, as she peered behind a set of jars. Suddenly, Ava screamed and jumped back away from the containers. Her shriek echoed down the tunnel but Marianne remained unfazed, though perhaps a little deaf. "It's a rat! A huge rat! Oh, Maker, I _hate_ rats!" she cried, twisting her hands into her frock as she backed as far away from the jars as possible.

Marianne stepped forward and looked for herself. In the shadows, she could see something furry caught in the metal jaws of the trap. Ignoring Ava's panicked whimpers, Marianne moved aside the jars so that she could see the creature more clearly. It was a rat, but a small one, and definitely dead.

"Hand me a sack," instructed Marianne as she gestured behind her. A moment later, Ava tossed a cloth sack at Marianne's feet from a safe distance. Marianne dropped the trap, rat and all, into the sack and frowned.

"What were you supposed to do if you found one?" she asked. Ava grimaced and slowly approached Marianne, warily eyeing the sack the entire time.

"I don't know! She just said to 'dispose of it.' Can't we just toss it into one of the braziers?"

Marianne glanced along the tunnel and saw a lit brazier still flickering near the dungeon cells. Casually, she tossed the sack and its deceased contents into the fire and walked back to Ava, who was already waiting at the bottom of the stairs.

She looked at Marianne with a furrowed brow. "You know, Marianne, I don't mean to sound rude but…"

"But?"

"Sometimes you're just so…odd."

"What do you mean?"

"You just… _do_ things. I've never seen you afraid of anything. You picked up that dead rat without even flinching!"

Marianne raised an eyebrow. "Rats aren't scary," she said.

"Well, maybe not to _you_ , but you didn't even seem disgusted! How is it you stay so calm all the time?"

Marianne shrugged.

"Well," Ava huffed, "Let's go see if Bree finally got that fire going." They both traipsed upstairs and returned to Bree who had completely given up on the fire and was sitting on the floor attempting to read Ava's book by the dying firelight.

"Bree! Why haven't you gotten more firewood? And who said you could touch my book?" said Ava, roughly tugging the tome out of Bree's grasp. Bree scowled at her and sighed.

"I got it last time!" said Bree. "Let Marianne go and get it!"

"You can't just make Marianne do all your chores, Bree. You're always taking advantage of her!" said Ava.

"I'm not taking advantage of her. She can always say no, isn't that right Marianne?" said Bree.

Both sisters turned to look at her. Marianne exhaled through her nose. Their voices were giving her a headache. She suddenly remembered why she had volunteered to stand out in the cold for an hour….

"I don't mind, Ava. I'll go bring in the wood and then Bree can rekindle the fire. It will be fine."

"You don't have to, Marianne. Let Bree go and do it."

"No. It's no trouble. I need something else to do, anyway," she said.

She left the two lay-sisters before they could say anything else. The fire would go out completely before they stopped harping at each other. She stepped outside again into the brisk chill and cast one last glance towards Haven's gates, but the Revered Mother was still not there. Marianne hoped she returned soon; maybe _she_ could finally end Ava and Bree's endless squabbling. The wood pile was stacked neatly at the side of the Chantry, and she had only started to pick up a few logs when the world suddenly shook to its bones.

She heard it before she felt it: a crack so loud, she thought she had been struck by lightning, and then a boom that resounded through the mountain pass like the Maker's own voice. A split second later, Marianne was thrown back into a nearby snow bank by an invisible wave of force. The breath in her lungs left all at once in a surprised gasp, and her vision flickered with dark spots.

Dazed, Marianne turned and slumped out of the snow and onto the icy ground, cradling her head in her hands. Suddenly, everything around her turned a hazy green and she looked up to the sky. Her ears rang so loudly, she couldn't hear her own scream.

High above the mountain peaks to the west, a menacing swirl of clouds spread out from the sickly green eye with strange lightning arcing all around its maw. As Marianne stared up in horror, the rift in the sky seem to widen and a sudden and very sharp charge of energy raced up her spine, blinding her with pain. She gagged at the sudden taste of ashes in her mouth. Something was on fire…something was burning….

"Marianne!" someone cried, the sound so muffled, it was hard to tell. A pair of hands lifted Marianne up from the ground and shocked her back into reality. "Marianne, are you alright?" Ava asked. "We have to get out of here!" The poor girl was nearly weeping.

"No," said Marianne, finally regaining her hearing. She staggered slightly as another bolt of pain, like white-hot lightning, pulsed through her. Ava steadied her until the feeling subsided and she shook her head to clear the sensation. "We have to help get people out of the fire!"

"What are you talking about, Marianne? There isn't a fire! Come on, we have to leave!" Ava wailed. Marianne looked around, bewildered, but Ava was right: there was no fire. Still, the scent of smoke clawed at her senses as if she were in the middle of a blaze. She wanted to spit the taste of ash from her mouth, but Ava's insistent pull forced her to ignore the sensation and the two lay-sisters fled back to the front side of the chantry where the village had erupted into complete chaos. People were screaming and running as far away from the hole in the sky as possible, trampling over anything and anyone that got in their way. The chantry's bell tower rang out in alarm, as if the sky shattering boom hadn't already alerted all of Ferelden.

Marianne glanced up again at the sky, her heart pounding in her chest. It looked like magic, but she couldn't help thinking of the old Chantry tale. Had the Black City been breached again by some power-hungry mages, and now the Maker pulled apart the sky to cast them down? Bree was panicking on the chantry steps as they arrived, her whole body shaking and breaths coming in heaving whoops.

"Ava! We…have to…get…out…of here!" Bree gasped.

"What happened? Did anyone see anything?" asked Marianne. Ava shook her head.

The short figure of High Chancellor Roderick pushed his way through the sisters to the top of the chantry steps and waved his hands over his head, shouting. "People of Haven! Please! Quiet yourselves!" His usual ruddy complexion was blanched white with fear, but he continued shouting with determined vigor. It did nothing.

Finally, a fierce looking woman with shortly cropped hair and sharp cheekbones strode up the steps and moved the Chancellor out of the way with a wave of her hand. She nodded to one of the soldiers that accompanied her, and the soldier blew out a series of long notes on his signal horn. Heads turned toward the sound and soon the chaos of Haven clumped together at the chantry steps into one hushed, terrified crowd.

"I require every able-bodied soldier, Templar or otherwise, to come with me to the Temple of Sacred Ashes! Everyone else, seek refuge in the chantry!" ordered the woman, her accent distinctly _not_ from Ferelden or Orlais. The symbol of the Seekers of Truth was emblazoned on her chest, and Marianne instantly knew her as the Right Hand of the Divine, the Hero of Orlais: Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast.

Like sheep, the crowd pushed forward into the sanctuary of the chantry's strong stone walls and Marianne and the other sisters were carried along with them.

Inside, the denizens of Haven huddled together in clumps; some praying, others sitting in stunned silence, and still others whimpering softly.

"What are we going to do?" asked Ava in a trembling whisper.

"We're all…going…to…die!" sobbed Bree. Ava pulled Bree into a hug and let the distraught sister weep into her shoulder.

"We can't fall apart, Bree!" snapped Marianne.

Bree's sobs hushed abruptly into subdued hiccups and she let go of Ava to stare at Marianne in wordless shock. Even Ava looked surprised at her tone. Maybe it was the fear, but there was this bubbling warmth starting in Marianne's gut that flowed freely through her veins. She felt trapped in her own skin, her blood suddenly burning with the desire to do _something_.

"We need to help," Marianne continued. "Ava, come with me to the sleeping quarters and gather as many blankets as you can. Pass them out to any elderly and children. Bree, I want you to go find one of the Mothers and start leading a Chant." She took a deep breath, feeling the warm buzz in her fingertips. "If we are going to wait here, we need to give as much comfort as possible."

The lay-sisters nodded and as Bree left to find a priestess, Ava fell in line behind Marianne and they hurried to the side wing of the chantry. They ransacked through the cupboards and chests, pulling out blankets and skins. A dull, much quieter boom thundered outside and the sound sent another shock through Marianne's system. This time she only felt an uncomfortable stinging sensation running along her spine, rather than the debilitating shocks from before. She fell to one knee for a moment in surprise before recovering and then continued to gather material. As she pulled a blanket from underneath her own bed, she paused.

Gingerly, she reached out and touched the smooth silver metal of her father's Templar shield, which lay next to his leather-sheathed sword. They were tucked amongst the other meager belongings that she'd brought with her from Orlais.

"Marianne? What, what is it?" asked Ava, hurrying to her side and nearly tripping over the tail of a fox fur skin.

Carefully, Marianne pulled out the sword, still hidden in its fine leather sheath, as well as the Templar shield and rested them both on her bed. She stared down at the weapons, her body buzzing with unfamiliar warmth.

"Marianne, you can't be serious. I've never even seen you swing a sword," protested Ava. "If you try to go out there, you'll die!"

She dropped her hand away from the weapons and left them sitting idly on her bed. Ava was right. This was no time to be foolish.

Once they had passed the blankets around, Marianne stood anxiously by the main doors to await any news. Every errant sound caused her to jerk her head towards the ceiling, waiting for the roof to be consumed into the sky, and her along with it. She had heard that dwarves didn't come to the surface because they were afraid they would fall up into the sky. Maybe today, they were right.

A thousand years seemed to go by before she heard the same foreign voice from before, the Seeker's voice, shouting orders from outside. The doors pulled open swiftly and a vengeful, icy wind whipped into the sanctuary, eliciting several frightened screams from the cowering townsfolk. Marianne scurried to get out of the Seeker's path way and half hid behind a nearby pillar, her fingers gripping into the stone as if she might at any moment be swept away.

The Seeker marched in first, her dark eyes fixed ahead of her with severe determination. Following closely behind, two guards dragged the limp form of an elven woman between them. Several other guards marched after them, as well as a curious looking elven man with a head as smooth as polished stone. All of them processed through the door leading down into the dungeons, and once they were through, two guards posted themselves outside the passageway and the door closed with a heavy boom.

"What do we do now?" asked Bree.

Marianne glanced around the sanctuary and shrugged. "I…I don't know."

"So we're just supposed to sit here and wait?"

Marianne bit down on her bottom lip. The warm buzz in her veins had grown steadily more intense, and her fingers tremored slightly. She shook out her hands as if to banish the excess energy, but nothing could quell it or her frantic pulse.

"I'm going to go lay down. Come and get me if anything changes," she said, eager to get away.

She made her way to the sleeping quarters where a few of the beds were already occupied with mothers cradling their children, or the elderly who needed more comfort than the hard, stone floors. At the side of her bed, she froze.

Her father's sword and shield were laid out on the sheets, still undisturbed. She reached out and pressed her hand on the shield's cold surface, and it sent a shock of tingles through her palm. Looking around the room, all she could see were hopeless faces lying down and waiting for their inevitable destruction.

A dull, booming thunder rang out in the skies above them, and another stinging sensation skittered down her back like invisible spiders until she dropped to her knees in fear.

What was she doing? She should stay on her knees, pray and wait for the Maker's coming. But her thoughts started to war against each other: the fear and adrenaline demanding action, and common sense begging her to stay put. She hadn't felt so emotional, so _alive,_ since…since…

Her memories eluded her, like she was grasping at smoke. It didn't matter; she couldn't let herself be overwhelmed. Her hand brushed against the sword's leather sheath and reignited the tingling in her palms. She would remain in the chantry and wait for the Maker with all of the others…but only after she did one last thing.

Before she could lose the unfamiliar surge of resolve, Marianne grabbed the sword and slung the shield on her back. She left out the front doors of the chantry and followed the soldiers who were scrambling to outfit themselves for whatever they might find ahead and sprinting towards the gates. She fell into the stream of men and women, everyone too consumed with their own fear to notice the armed chantry sister hurrying beside them.

Once outside the gates, a harsh wind blew off the lake's frozen waters and chilled her to the bone. She was still dressed in only her leggings, shirt, and red Chantry frock. Even her toes seemed to freeze inside of her fur-lined boots. She must look foolish with no armor whatsoever; she didn't even bring a coat. Still, she pressed on and up the forested hill to Penitents' Crossing, the ancient stone bridge guarded by menacing towers on both ends - the first landmark in the pilgrimage leading up to the Temple.

Currently, the bridge was swarmed with soldiers. Orders were being shouted around the rabble as some men and women were formed into loose groups to be sent onward and beyond the Crossing's gates. Crates of supplies and weapons were strewn haphazardly along the bridge, creating a treacherous gauntlet to get through to the other side.

Lost in the chaos, Marianne stumbled straight into a wall of fur. The collision knocked her backwards to the ground, and she looked up, slightly dazed. A man dressed in a surcoat with what seemed to be an entire lion's mane attached around the collar had turned back around and looked at her sternly.

"Sister, you need to go back to the chantry. We can't have any civilians beyond this point," he said as he reached out a hand and carefully lifted her from the ground, his grip warm and strong. His face was… heroic; handsome, with curly blonde hair and intense amber eyes. For a moment, Marianne's mind went blank until the sound of dull thunder reminded her of why she was there.

"I'm sorry, I'm just looking for someone in charge," she said, trying not to quaver with fear.

The man hesitated and looked at the disorder around him, grimacing. "Seeker Pentaghast is running most of the effort but…" he paused and his eyes darted about the bridge anxiously. Finally, he ran his hand quickly through his hair and grit his teeth together. "I'm sure I'll do for the moment. Are you here to fight?" he asked, nodding to her weapons. She felt that rush of adrenaline, that tingle that wanted her say yes….

"No, I don't have the skill for it. Or at least, not enough to be of any use right now. But these were my father's. Knight Commander Arlon Marchet of the Montsimmard Circle. I… I wanted to give these to someone who could use them since I cannot," she explained. Hastily, she presented the sword out to the man.

His hand hesitated over the hilt. "Are you sure, Sister?" he asked. His voice was firm. Commanding.

"Please. I have no other way to help," she said. Marianne practically pushed the sword and shield into his grasp.

"If I can, I will make sure these are returned to you," he said. "But I cannot guarantee it."

"I understand," she said.

"What is your name, Sister?"

"Marianne. Marianne Marchet."

The man nodded. Overhead, there was another dull roar of thunder and every face turned to the heavens.

The hole in the sky…it was _growing._ Marianne felt another warm tingle down her spine, but felt no pain, only a slight throbbing in the back of her head. The echoes of signal horns sounded up the pass beyond the bridge, and the activity around them became twice as frantic.

Over the din, Marianne heard someone shout. "Demons!"

Somewhere up the road unseen, she heard the faintest sound of steel clashing and unearthly shrieks that belonged in the realm of nightmares.

"Get back to the chantry!" the man ordered as he stared up at the sky, his amber-colored eyes burning with grim determination. She did not need him to tell her twice.

Sprinting all the way back to Haven, Marianne didn't stop until she reached the safety of the chantry. Soldiers stationed by the main doors ushered her inside quickly before sealing the sanctuary behind her again.

A few heads turned to look at her, but the rest of Haven's refugees remained in despairing silence. One of the senior clerics preached the Canticle of Trials in a quavering voice, but the words echoed hollowly throughout the hall and no one seemed to hear him. Most of the villagers had divided into small clumps and were spread out around the main hall. Some had managed to acquire a few blankets and furs, spreading them out onto the harsh stone floor or wrapping them around the shoulders of the young, sick, and elderly. Marianne settled down next to Ava and Bree who had taken up their own section of the wall. It was near enough that they could feel the heat from the fireplace, and Marianne stared into the crackling flames until her eyes blurred from the smoke and exhaustion.

And then they waited for the world to end.


	2. Chapter 2

It was a miracle.

Hours after they had all resigned themselves to death, the doors of the chantry swung open and soldiers ran in beaming and astonished as they delivered the news: the elf woman whom Marianne had seen earlier being dragged the dungeons, had reached up toward the sky and sealed the Breach. They called her the Herald of Andraste: she who was blessed by the Maker to deliver them from destruction. Marianne didn't care what they called her; the elf had healed the sky without using magic, or even being a mage. She had given them hope.

But the celebrations were short lived as the confirmed death toll reached into the thousands. The remaining bodies that were not obliterated by the Conclave's explosion and the corpses of those who fell in the ensuing battle were collected and burned within the Temple's crater, and so numerous were the dead, that the pyres burned constantly for three days.

Almost one week after the Breach tore open the heavens, Haven held a vigil for the thousands of souls lost at the Conclave, Divine Justinia chief among the victims. In the darkened hush of the chantry's sanctuary, hundreds of candles twinkled around the shrines of Andraste and the Maker like starlight. It was there that Marianne saw the Herald for the first time since she had been dragged unconscious and bound like a prisoner through the chantry hall when the Breach had first opened.

Marianne was standing near the back of the faithful crowd, watching silently as High Chancellor Roderick extolled the many virtues of Divine Justinia in a passionate prepared sermon. Marianne found the male timbre of his voice jarring. Men were only permitted to serve the Chantry in low-ranking positions, but High Chancellor Roderick seemed determined to take charge anyway. With so many senior Chantry figures dead, no one protested his newest role, but it still felt very wrong.

Every so often, the high chancellor would curse those responsible for the tragedy in loud, forceful rhetoric until his ruddy face splotched an even deeper shade of red. It was then that Marianne noticed a slight figure hovering behind one of the pillars, her face half-hidden in shadow. She was young, no older than Marianne. The intricate lines of her face-tattoos wound along her forehead and cheeks like delicate roots, encircling her crystal blue eyes in dark green ink. Her wavy auburn hair was pulled over to one side while the other half of her head was shaved which left her delicate pointed ear prominently exposed. She reminded Marianne of a sparrow: timid and constantly on the verge of taking flight. The elf did not seem to notice Marianne gaping at her, and continued watching High Chancellor Roderick's increasingly vehement demands for justice with a fearful gaze.

It took days before anyone could convince Bree that the elf was the Herald of Andraste - marked with the Bride's own holy blessing on her palm. Marianne doubted too, but kept her reservations to herself. It was done and decided by Divine Justinia's own Left and Right Hands. Who were they to disagree?

After a few minutes, the Herald caught Marianne's blatant staring and the elf's eyes grew wide with sudden panic, as if Marianne had caught her doing something wrong. In a flash, the Herald ducked behind her pillar, then made a hasty retreat towards the doors and outside to Haven. Marianne watched her go and didn't even notice the wax from her candle starting to drip onto her frock until Ava reached over and hastily steadied her hand. Marianne whispered an apology, and then obediently turned back to the shimmering, golden shrine until the service ended.

That night, as the three Montsimmard lay-sisters prepared for bed, Ava gestured for them to gather together. Ava and Bree sat on Ava's bed and Marianne took a place on the floor nearby. The tragedy had left Ava and Bree much quieter and more subdued than Marianne had ever seen them; she almost wished they would go back to their quarreling if it meant an end to their ceaseless melancholy.

"I know we haven't really had time to talk," said Ava, "but now that things have settled down, we need to decide what we're going to do."

"What does it matter? The world is ending," moaned Bree.

"It hasn't ended yet, Bree," said Marianne. "I think Ava is right. We should decide how we can help the Inquisition." Both sisters looked down at Marianne with a mixture of confusion, shock, and mild horror.

Ava lowered her voice down to a whisper while looking nervously around the room. "I didn't say anything about the Inquisition, Marianne! The Chantry has named it heresy!"

"But they closed the Breach. Seeker Pentaghast said that-"

Bree cut off Marianne's protest with a derisive snort. "The Seeker has lost her mind. I don't care if she is the Right Hand of the Divine. The Inquisition is complete blasphemy. Having a _Dalish elf_ named the Herald of Andraste? It's ridiculous!"

Marianne furrowed her brow and turned to appeal to Ava. "Ava, you've read more books than either of us. Surely you of all people know that the Inquisition is a holy endeavor. And even if it wasn't, at least they're _trying_ to do something."

"I suppose…it might be interesting to be in a _real_ Inquisition. We'd be a part of history," said Ava, her eyes brightening with excitement.

Bree shook her head vigorously. "Absolutely not. We came here with the Revered Mother for the Conclave. She would want us to return to Montsimmard."

"The Revered Mother is dead, Bree. She cannot give us any more direction," said Marianne.

"You sound like you don't even care that she's dead!" sneered Bree. A small flash of sudden heat throbbed at the back of Marianne's skull, but faded just as quickly. How could Bree be so unreasonable? A slow, building frustration started to eat away at her natural calmness, gnawing in her gut like a dog on a bone.

"They're helping people, Bree. We should stay and help people, too," she insisted, keeping her tone as even as possible.

"Oh, what do you care, Marianne? You never care about anything!" said Bree.

"Bree, that's not fair. We all cared about Mother Edith. If she were here-" said Ava.

" _She would want us to go back to Montsimmard!_ " repeated Bree.

Ava chewed on her bottom lip and looked anxiously around the room. Bree and Marianne stared at her expectantly. Marianne felt another heated pulse, followed by an unexpected wave of annoyance. For the first time, she wondered why they always deferred to Ava. Bree was older by at least a year, and Marianne had been a lay-sister in Montsimmard longer than either of them.

Why had it never bothered her before?

Finally, Ava let out a long, tired sigh. "Marianne, I know it's exciting, but I think Bree is right. We need to go home."

Bree nodded triumphantly. "I can go and talk to one of the clerics tomorrow, and we can plan how we'll-"

Marianne inhaled sharply as another—slightly stronger—throb pulsed at the base of her skull. "I'm staying," she announced suddenly, surprised by the intensity in her own voice. The sisters stared at her in stunned silence.

"Marianne…you know we can't just leave you behind," said Ava.

Marianne stood up and took a deep breath. The throbbing in her head began to dissipate, allowing her to pull her emotions back into check. Soon enough, she regained her natural tranquility, though the lack of heat in her blood left her feeling hollow.

"What you choose to do is your business," she said while ignoring Bree's angry stare. "But I'm staying." With that, she walked back to her own bed, laid down, and went to sleep.

Over the next few days, Marianne watched Haven grow and transform from a sleepy village into a bustling center of command. Rows of tents started popping up outside the gates to house the steady stream of volunteers seeking out the Inquisition. A week ago, the Inquisition's official notice had been nailed to the chantry doors, and already Haven's population had doubled. Marianne found no shortage of work to do.

While carefully navigating Haven's frozen steps towards the gate, she gripped a nearby wall as her feet slid underneath her on a patch of ice. Above her, one of Haven's stone-carved dog statues snarled down at her like it might bite her fingers off.

"Careful," said someone. She felt a pair of hands help to steady her until she could stand on her own and turn to see the stranger. A slender elf man nodded to her politely, taking his hands away from her and folding them behind his back. Dressed in a rough tunic and pants, she could not imagine how he was keeping warm.

"My apologies," she said. She had the strangest feeling, like his eyes were much older than the rest of him.

"It is no trouble. The winter in Haven is proving quite treacherous, on multiple accounts," he said, smiling slightly and glancing up once towards the Breach.

"Yes," she answered simply.

Though still wearing a friendly smile, the man stared at her curiously as if he were trying to figure something out. Although he didn't have a staff at the moment, she recognized him as the Herald's apostate companion. She felt a sudden and desperate need to get away from the man.

A brisk wind nipped straight through her coat, snapping her out of the elf's scrutiny. "Thank you. I should be going," she said.

She hurried the rest of the way towards the front gate and did not look back. Once she reached the outside camp, she sat down on a nearby rock and leaned forward until her head hung between her knees. She inhaled slowly through her nose and exhaled through her mouth, creating a white cloud of fog. Closing her eyes, she continued her breathing pattern until her heart stopped panicking in her chest.

For a moment, she imagined herself back in Montsimmard with Mother Edith soothingly rubbing her back as she recovered from her panic—the same choking panic she felt around all mages. When she was much younger, Marianne couldn't see a mage without plummeting into a screaming delirium but as she grew older, her reactions became less intense. Marianne opened her eyes and stared at the tops of her boots. Now Mother Edith was gone, killed in the Conclave's destruction. Magic had taken her away from Marianne, too.

Finally calm, Marianne pulled her head up and looked around the camp. She had almost forgotten what she came down here for. The cart carrying bandages for the healers had broken a wheel outside the village, but the Sisters couldn't wait until it was fixed to retrieve the supplies. Naturally, Marianne volunteered.

She got up and continued down the muddy path between rows of canvas tents, her boots squishing noisily in the slush. Dotted throughout camp were large fire pits and braziers where soldiers and refugees gathered around on roughly-hewn benches to swap stories or have a meal. To the western side of camp near the makeshift training grounds, a line of recently abused straw dummies hung limply from their posts. The recruits had moved onto sparring each other with wooden swords, knocking back and forth in a noisy display. Among them was the Inquisition's commander, calling out drill commands in a warm, strong voice. She paused between two tents to watch him striding back and forth across the field, one hand resting easily on the longsword sheathed at his hip.

It was the same man from the bridge to whom she gave away her father's sword and shield, her most prized possessions, without any thought. She had not spoken to him since then, but was not eager to seek him out. She had already accepted that her father's weapons were lost forever somewhere in the snowy mountain pass, waiting to rust.

"Enjoying the view?" Ava giggled behind her.

Marianne turned around and felt her face flush. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," she said. Ava's face spread into a mischievous smile.

"Oh, come now, Marianne. Don't be like that. He is _very_ handsome," she sighed, looking past Marianne's shoulder towards the training grounds, her eyes glazed over with longing.

"He's the commander of the Inquisition. He deserves better than to be gawked at by some doe-eyed Chantry sisters," Marianne said, feeling another flash of heat in her cheeks.

"Whatever will help you sleep at night," said Ava with a shrug, never taking her eyes away from the commander.

"What are you even doing out here, Ava?" asked Marianne.

"Hm?" she said, still obviously distracted.

"Ava," said Marianne more firmly. The lay-sister reluctantly tore her eyes away from the commander and focused again on Marianne.

"I was told to come help you bring back the supplies from the wagon."

"Why?"

"You won't be able to carry it all by yourself, you know. And besides," said Ava wistfully, her gaze straying back towards the training grounds. "I volunteered."

"Then perhaps we should start moving," said Marianne.

Ava pouted her bottom lip pitifully, but eventually peeled herself away from her gawking and headed farther into camp towards the wagon. Marianne followed behind her and with only a moment to glance back towards the training grounds one final time she could have sworn that the commander was looking right at her before he disappeared behind the tents and out of sight.


	3. Chapter 3

A sudden yelp called Cullen's attention away from the Chantry sisters watching him from the camp and back to his recruits, one of which was curled up on the ground, groaning with pain. The man's sparring partner looked frantically from the recruit he had just knocked to the ground and then to Cullen.

 _If these recruits were any greener, they'd be fresh, spring grass_ , he thought as he sighed through his nose.

"Well, don't just stand there, Markus! Help him up!" Cullen ordered. "And you, Hammond! You have a shield in your hand for a reason. Use it!"

He watched carefully as Markus hoisted Hammond to his feet. The injured recruit seemed to be recovering quickly, and soon waved Markus away so they could continue the drill. Cullen looked back up at the camp just in time to see the Chantry girls disappearing behind the row of tents, briefly catching the gaze of the raven-haired one with dark eyes as they left.

He cursed himself inwardly for not remembering her name. Several times he had meant to return her sword to her, but with so many other things to do, the errand continued to slip his mind. But he couldn't just let anyone return it; he would do it in person, and with honor. Especially since he had only recovered the sword, and not her shield.

Suddenly, a scout—Scout Riley, maybe?—approached him with an unopened scroll of parchment.

"Commander," she said, saluting him. "A message for you from the Herald, ser."

Cullen took the parchment and dismissed the scout. The word "commander" still caused his stomach to churn with unease, even though he had been a part of the Inquisition for weeks now. He glanced through the missive twice and then crumpled it in his hands and growled with frustration.

"Rylen!" he barked. His second-in-command ran over to his side, observing him cautiously.

"Yes, ser?"

"Finish drilling the recruits. I have something I need to take care of," he said gruffly and then started marching off towards the chantry before Rylen could salute him.

As he headed toward Haven's main gates (which still needed to be properly reinforced; he made a mental note to tell Cassandra later), an errant wind swirled through the camp and ruffled the fur mantle of his surcoat. It tickled the back of his neck, creating a maddening itch that he knew he wouldn't be able to reach (his armor was only so flexible).

His skin felt feverish and sweaty beneath all his layers, like he was walking in the middle of summer instead of the Frostbacks' punishing winter. All he reallywanted to do was strip down to his smalls and dive headfirst into a snow pile.

It was just a part of the withdrawal, he knew. Cassandra said he was pushing himself too hard, too fast. Just one more hour without it, he told himself. One more meeting, one more exercise, one more distraction to keep him out of his tent and away from the lyrium.

Cullen quickened his pace, baring his teeth as he continued to grow more and more irritated. Once inside the gates, he continued up the set of stairs to Haven's second tier of houses and shops - all of them, he had decided early on, being completely indefensible and probably one spark away from burning down into kindling.

Varric was whistling idly by a fire pit and Cullen nodded curtly to him, hoping that would be enough to avoid a conversation. It wasn't.

"Hey, Curly!" said the dwarf, his face breaking into an easy smile. Cullen stopped, one boot already resting on the next set of stairs.

"What is it, Varric?" he asked.

Varric held up his hands in mock surrender. "Woah, take it easy, Curly. You know if you scowl like that for too long, it'll freeze that way. Just ask Cassandra," he said. Cullen resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair to make sure it was still smoothed down and in order (why was everyone so bloody fascinated with his hair?).

"Varric," he said firmly. Cullen rested his hands on the pommel of his sword, feeling the security of its weight against his hip and allowing him to hide the shaking in his hands. Maker's breath, it was warm suddenly….

"I need a favor, Curly," said Varric.

"What kind of illegal activity do you think I, of all people, would help you with?" he asked.

Varric smirked. "It's not one of _those_ favors. I just figured since you looked like you were heading that way…"

"Spit it out, Tethras," he said. Varric pulled out a letter from inside his shirt, which even in this weather he had left brazenly unlaced in the front so all the world could see his hairy dwarf chest. Cullen envied him for a moment (not for the chest hair, but for the open shirt).

"I need someone to deliver this to Ruffles," said Varric. Cullen had to think a moment before he remembered that Varric was talking about Josephine (there had to be a way to put an end to the nicknames; it was getting ridiculous).

"Why can't you do it? Did the Hinterlands wear you out so badly?" he said skeptically.

"If you saw how many bears we had to deal with, you'd be tired too," said Varric. "But no. It's just that I would rather stay as far out of the Seeker's way as possible. I think she's still keeping a prison cell open for me, just in case."

"Fine, fine. Give it to me," he said. Varric handed him the letter and then nodded his head in thanks.

"I owe you one, Curly," said Varric. "Speaking of which, I'll take those ten silvers you owe me from last game whenever you're ready to part with them."

"I haven't forgotten," Cullen said, grinding his teeth in chagrin (he had forgotten, but he hoped he could win the silver back and more with one more round of Wicked Grace—as long as Varric didn't cheat this time). He turned to leave and started to climb up the stairs. Before he reached the top, Varric shouted after him:

"Smile, Curly! We're not dead yet!"

Cullen raised the hand with the note in it to acknowledge the dwarf. As he walked the last few steps toward the chantry doors, he spotted Chancellor Roderick out of the corner of his eye speeding towards him as puffed and self-important as ever. Maker's breath, could he walk two steps without someone bothering him?

"Commander!" called the chancellor.

 _How is it that he can say any word and it sounds like an accusation?_ Cullen wondered.

"My apologies, Chancellor Roderick, but I don't have time to—"

"How is it that you and your thugs strut about the village claiming to protect it when you allow a known apostate to freely roam about without any Templar supervision?"

Cullen sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose to stem his growing headache. "Solas has been invaluable to the Herald and the Inquisition. He understands the Fade and the rifts and without him, we might not even be here," he said.

"He is still an apostate and—"

"Maker's breath," said Cullen, cutting him off. "Every mage is an apostate now, we don't have any Circles!"

Chancellor Roderick huffed and crossed his arms, his face growing a darker shade of beet red. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at your flippancy toward the subject given your track record, Commander. Your track record with the Circles leaves something to be desired, especially after the debacle at Kirkwall. It was Kirkwall that incited this mess in the first place!" he blustered.

Cullen grit his teeth and resisted the very real urge to drive his sword very slowly through Chancellor Roderick's ribs.

"Solas will remain free to do as he wishes, as long as he continues to serve the Herald and the Inquisition. Will that be all, Chancellor?" he said icily.

The chancellor scowled at him and then stormed away, muttering angrily to himself. Cullen caught the words "disrespectful" and "thug" before Chancellor Roderick had moved out of earshot. He shook his head and pushed down the old anger bubbling in his gut—he didn't have time to dwell on Kirkwall now (or ever). He had to keep moving; stay in the present. And then he turned back to the chantry and opened the doors.

As he stepped inside, he sent up a silent prayer to the Maker and the Holy Andraste, begging for the strength to get through the day without losing his mind. Being within the chantry's silent, cold walls only made him twitchy, and he hurried toward the war council room. The faster he finished this meeting, the faster he could get back to work.

The sound of Josephine's office door swinging open jolted him. She stopped when she saw him and nodded politely, her quill already poised in her hand.

"Ah, good," she said. "I believe the rest of them are already inside."

"I don't know what Cassandra expects to accomplish," said Cullen as he crossed the hall and met Josephine at the war council door.

"If I know her, it will probably involve hitting something repeatedly," she said, half-joking.

Cullen smirked. "Now why didn't I think of that?"

Josephine flipped through a few pages of notes she had attached to her portable writing desk, double-checking every detail, as always.

"Ah, before I forget…" Cullen handed Varric's note to the ambassador and she looked at him quizzically before taking the parchment from his grasp. "Varric asked me to give that to you."

Josephine opened the letter and read through it briefly before smiling and burying it among the rest of her notes.

"Please tell me I didn't just hand you a smuggling contract or an itemized list of stolen contraband."

Josephine laughed softly and shook her head. "A letter to his editor. He wants me to forward it to Kirkwall."

"Thank the Maker," said Cullen.

"Shall we?" asked Josephine, nodding toward the door.

He opened it, and offered for the ambassador to enter before him with a sweeping gesture, and then closed the door securely behind them. Cassandra, Leliana, and the Herald, Shae Lavellan, were already standing around the war table and looking intently at the large, painted maps of Thedas. Josephine and Cullen took their unofficially designated places on the other side of the table across from the Herald.

Shae's expression always seemed to be in a constant state of fearful distress. Personally, Cullen would not have handed so much of the Inquisition's power to someone so inexperienced, or so obviously overwhelmed. Shae called war council meetings several times a day, constantly asking for advice and changing her decisions until the very last moment. But he hid his frustration from the poor girl; he could not even begin to imagine what it must be like to have the fate of all Thedas resting on those small shoulders.

"When did we decide we were leaving for Val Royeaux?" Lavellan asked timidly.

"In three days, Your Worship," said Josephine.

"Yes. Right," said Lavellan. Her eyebrows pinched together, causing the Dalish tattoos on her forehead to wrinkle and twist slightly. "But we said it's a trap?"

"It may be a trap," Leliana said. "But it's very unlikely they would cause you any physical harm. The clerics are all bark and no bite."

"And you will not be going alone," said Cassandra. The Herald nodded and dragged a delicate hand across the map, lightly tracing the road from Haven to Val Royeaux. 

Cullen stifled a sigh. Had he really been interrupted from his work to give the Herald another pep talk? Cullen clenched his jaw as a sharp, jabbing pain started to form right between his eyes. _And here comes the headache,_ he thought miserably.

The Herald pulled her hand suddenly from the map. "And how is the search for the soldiers in the Fallow Mire?" she asked.

"Scout Lace Harding should be arriving there any day now," Cullen said. "We will have to wait for her full report before we can thoroughly assess the situation."

While the Herald engrossed herself in the details of the map, Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, breathing in for ten counts, and then exhaling slowly. When he opened his eyes and put his hand back down, Cassandra was staring at him. He shook his head just slightly in an effort to dismiss her worried gaze, but Cullen could practically see Cassandra internally writing the lecture she was going to give him later.

"Leliana, will any of your scouts be with us? In case we need help?" asked Lady Lavellan.

"I can arrange it," said Leliana.

The Herald's left hand hovered over the table. It suddenly glowed an innocuous green halo, which faded away just as quickly. Lady Lavellan jerked her hand away and hid it behind her back, her pale face flushing pink as she looked down at the ground, horrified. "Then, I suppose that's all. Thank you, everyone," she mumbled, then sped from the room.

Cassandra shut the door behind her as the other advisors shared uneasy looks.

"Well," said Josephine. "I think that went better than last time. At least the commander didn't make her burst into tears."

"Maker's breath," Cullen said. "I didn't mean it! And I apologized afterwards."

Cassandra crossed her arms stubbornly. "She is young, but I know there is strength in her. She just needs time."

"Time is a luxury we cannot afford," remarked Leliana.

Cassandra sighed. "We need to give her a chance. You were not with her in the Hinterlands like I was. I think she will prove herself…eventually."

"We don't really have any other options," said Cullen. Maker's breath, he just wanted to go lie down. The throbbing in his head was getting worse; what if he had pushed himself too far? What would everyone think if they saw their commander suddenly collapse, writhing in pain? The very image mortified him.

"I take it the search for Hawke has been met with little success?" asked Josephine.

"None at all," said Cassandra, her face pulling into a scowl.

"Then I suppose there is nothing else to discuss. Shall we adjourn?" continued Josephine.

Cassandra waved them away and then placed both her hands on the war table and leaned her head forward with a heavy sigh. "Cullen. A word, if you please," she said.

He sighed and scratched at the back of his head, feeling distinctly like a child about to be scolded and not at all like the commander of an army. Josephine and Leliana left silently, but Cassandra waited a few moments after the door had closed before she spoke.

"How many doses today?" she asked bluntly.

Cullen gritted his teeth. "One and a half."

Cassandra sighed and straightened up from the war table, her eyes flashing with anger. "I told you that this wasn't going to happen quickly. You're pushing yourself too hard!"

"I'm not being reckless, Cassandra, I'm being pragmatic. If I don't test my limits, I'll never wean off of it."

"I don't want to see you destroy yourself just because you feel like you have to prove something," she insisted. "If you push yourself too far too soon, all the progress you have gained could be lost."

"I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm just—"

"Just what? Trying to get yourself killed?"

The headache was getting worse…blinding him, draining him…. What if he couldn't do it? What if he couldn't hold on? What was it all for? A sudden, intense pain pierced right between his eyes, like a dagger was being jabbed into his head and then all over his skin, and Maker, he was so thirsty and his hands wouldn't stop shaking. _Why can't I stop the shaking? The pain, the pain, the pain—!_

"I just want it to end!" he snarled and banged his fist on the table so violently that some of the war table pieces shook and toppled over.

Cullen unclenched his fist and covered his eyes with his hand. He took in a few slow breaths, and let the old anger fade away. When he was calm again, he felt too ashamed to look at the Seeker in the face, and stared down at the floor.

"I just keep wondering…what if I'm not strong enough?" he said quietly.

"You are strong enough, Cullen. If anyone can do this, it's you," she affirmed. "Now go. Take a dose, and rest for a couple of hours. That's an order."

Cassandra left the room, but Cullen stayed behind. He stared down at the map, focusing his eyes on the small mark labelled _Haven._ Then he slowly and deliberately picked up the pieces he had scattered in his rage and put them back in their places until the map was whole again. He took a few extra moments to meticulously face them in the same direction, lingering over each piece until it was positioned just right. The headache still pulsed behind his eyes, but it was manageable. He stepped back and looked over the map again while listening to the calm, steady rhythm of his breath and then finally turned on his heel with the practiced precision of a soldier and left the room.


End file.
